Disclaimer: I own nothing: not the characters, not the plot, not the songs, (Songs will probably be spoken more than sung, but I'll be using words as dialogue/monologue.) not even the concept/idea. As stated in the description, this is an adopted fic. [Scroll to the bottom for more information.]

The Bells of Notre Dame…

In the rosy city of Paris, the denizens are awoken by the echoes and reverberations of the bourdon bell. Its chimes always ring in the new day and command the people to start their tasks and chores. But on this day, the sixth of January, 1482 to be precise, people take delight in hearing the bourdon being followed by a series of lighter chimes. It is as if the metallic notes are encouraging everyone to take their time and enjoy as much of the day as possible.

Yet there is one such man who needs no reminder to enjoy life; the ever vivacious and mysterious gypsy puppeteer known only as Francois.

"Morning in Paris, the city awakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"

Francois has no house, no legal property, and no means of getting from here to there, yet every morning his caravan (which doubles as his theatre) would be found in a spot completely different from the previous. Whether it is to have a fresh audience for his shows or to thwart any vagrancy charges is debatable, but on this particular morning, Francois' cart is found on a quaint street beside the Parisian pearl, Notre Dame.

"The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"

Francois sits contently in his caravan. Putting the finishing touches on his harlequin clothes, he sews some small bells onto a golden-dyed tippet while singing strong and smoothly for anyone willing to hear. He makes sure to wink or blow a kiss to anyone kind (or foolish) enough to send a denier or two his way. "To the big bells as loud as thunder…To the little bells soft as a psalm…" Most people however, hardly pay him any attention as he sings of the beautiful bells that have become such an important part of the city and its people. They clutch their skirts and change purses; either turning up their noses in disgust or ducking away in fear. In turn, Francois does not acknowledge them. After all, such behaviors are expected when one is a gypsy. "And some say the soul of the city is the toll of the bells…" As his song finishes, Francois sees that he has attracted an audience; a handful of children who probably have not even a worthless English coin in their pockets, but still an audience. "The bells of Notre Dame~ Listen! They are beautiful, non? A symphony of color, sound, and moods," the puppeteer smiles softly as he soaks in the atmosphere. To Fancois, even the ripest of women and wine cannot compare to the pure love, wonder and adoration these children have reserved for him. "Because you know," whispers Francois as he leans in their direction, subtly setting up for a story, "They do not ring all by themselves."

Much to the children's delight, Francois pulls out his cutest hand puppet: a small vessel of cloth with little wooden buttons stitched on as eyes and wooly cat-like ears peeking through brown threads of hair. It "asks" in a squeaky voice, "They don't?"

"Non, silly Picardy. Up there, high, high up in the dark bell tower lives the mysterious bell-ringer." He says, gesturing to the majestic cathedral. "Who is this creature?"

"Who?" repeats the puppet, Picardy.

"What is he?"

"What?" Picardy repeats again.

"How did he come to be there?"

"How?" Picardy repeats for a third time.

In mock annoyance, Francois strikes his puppet with a stick, commanding him to "hush!" "Big brother will tell you. It is a sad tale that many would deny, but a true one. It is a tale of a man and a monster…"

In Francois's caravan, a curtain rises to reveal a preset stage and the show begins…

Dark was the night that started it all
On the quay near Notre Dame~

In the dead of night, a small wooden boat silently cuts through the slushy waters of the Seine. Two flaxen-haired sisters huddle together in an attempt to keep themselves and a tightly wrapped bundle warm. The infant within the bundle, unaware of the serious situation the group is in and not understanding the need for silence, cries at the pain of cold air filling his new lungs. The younger sister scowls. Her hands tightly clutch her most prized possession, a bullock dirk that has been very helpful in the past. "Sister!" She hisses in a voice as icy as the river. "Keep that thing quiet or get rid of it!"

The older sister takes off her pale pink scarf, wraps it around the bundle and then brings said bundle closer to her generous bosom, hoping to comfort her recently orphaned baby brother; or at least muffle his cries. "Quiet Vanya, we are almost there. But until then, we must not make a sound, da?"

Three frightened gypsies slip silently
Under the pier near Notre Dame~

Eventually, the boat reaches a shadowed riverbank that had been deemed safe enough to let out at. Though they are eager to settle in this promising city, the sisters are unable to set their feet onto the snow-covered ground before their pimple-faced smuggler holds out his hand, demanding his pay. "Four francs for safe passage into Paris, missus."

But a trap had been laid for the gypsies!
And they gazed up in fear and alarm
At a figure whose clutches were iron just as the bells of Notre Dame~

Unfortunately for the siblings, their metaphorical wagon had been hitched to a cocky ass. This smuggler has eluded the soldiers for some time, mostly by being lucky and discreet but it is funny how pride and one too many drinks at an alehouse can change that.

Instead of parting ways in hopes of never seeing each other again, both the smuggled and the smuggler are greeted by an ambush of soldiers. Arrows fly through the air and plant themselves into the ground; a warning to not move. More soldiers rush onto the scene with sharp and sturdy swords at the ready.

The younger sister, in an outburst of fury, surprises one of the soldiers with her dirk. She whips the blade out with practiced ease and plunges it into his dominant hand. Her effort however is in vain for there are more soldiers to replace the incompetent one; each equipped with restraints and the experience needed to deal with those who resist arrest.

However the final nail in the coffin, the puzzle piece that puts an end to the gypsy resolve, is the presence of the newly appointed Minister of Justice; a man with such a stony-hearted sense of righteousness that words of his deeds and practices have spread throughout all of France (and even other parts of Europe), Judge Arthur Kirkland. Even at a distance, the older sister trembles under the haughty gaze of the intimidating official. Tears well in her eyes and the drops that spill over freeze on her cheeks. Her breath comes out shaky and uneven as a clumsy gasp stumbles from her lips.

Judge Kirkland was a gentleman praised by decency and the Law.
And he strived to purge Paris of the sin and debauchery he saw.

From the shadows emerges the mastermind behind this snare, Arthur Kirkland; his ivy green eyes already imagining the lawbreakers being devoured by the pious flames of godly justice. From his horse, he scowls down at the crying trespasser and calls, "You, woman…" A pale finger protrudes from the velvety black robes donning his figure. With a voice commanding respect, he demands to know what it is that the buxom sister is trying to hide.

"H-honestly monsieur, it is only my baby b-brother. I wish not to expose him to the c-c-cold." The gypsy woman blubbers nervously, twisting this way and that, trying to keep her brother away from the soldiers' eyes.

Arthur scoffs. "Pagan wretch! Do you take me for a fool? You are obviously lying," he says. Arthur turns to address the troops. "It is probably stolen goods. Take them from her."

~she ran~

Through the dark, slick, snow-covered streets she runs. The gypsy woman has only one goal in mind: sanctuary. She wants sanctuary for sneaking illegally into the promising city and for resisting arrest of course, but more importantly, she needs sanctuary for the innocent babe in her charge. Why should he suffer for being born at an inopportune time? To a family of scorned entertainers? Sanctuary: that is the empowering mantra that she repeats to herself. Fear for her brother wills her heart to pump despite the freezing cold and drives her to stay ahead of the horse-aided judge.

Her cunning takes her to the narrowest of streets in hopes that M. Kirkland would lose her in the shadows of the buildings, but he continues to stay a fraction of a step behind.

Though the young gypsy woman has no idea where to direct her feet, a force more merciful than luck seems to be on her side, for her erratic twists and turns lead her to a light within the shadows; an opening. Just beyond the dark and dabby alleyway, the figure of Notre Dame stands as a refuge. Encouraged further by Her appearance, the gypsy dashes faster down the alley and vaults over the iron railing- the sole barrier betwixt hope and despair- and skids through the slippery mound of snow and slush on the other side. Not wanting to waste anytime, she pushes herself onward to the rumored-to-be inviting doors of the cathedral, pounding with every ounce of strength left in her tired and stressed body, crying, "Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" For a moment, she truly believes that everything will turn out all right; that she and her brother will be sheltered; that somehow they would find their sister and the three of them could live together in a wonderful place where they could be accepted…

But reality comes charging at her in the form of Arthur Kirkland and his midnight-hued horse. Overwhelmed with fear, she stands frozen in place for a few seconds and she pays for the instinctual reaction dearly. In one swift motion, Arthur jumps down from his steed and grabs the bundle, snatching it with the comparative strength and precision a predatorial bird would. And when the gypsy woman refuses to give in, he retaliates with a strong and abrupt shove.

The gypsy reaches out desperately for M. Kirkland. If her pleas for sanctuary ever reached his eardrums, he gave no heed. Instead, he mentally congratulates himself while unwrapping the tightly bound scarf.

Arthur has seen this trick before; the "baby" scam. Usually it is rags and rubbish stuffed into a blanket and shaped to resemble a baby in order to trick honest, hard-working, God-fearing folk into funding a vagrant's liquor stock. In other cases, it is a means of concealing ill-gotten gains. So as Arthur unfurls the thing, he expects change purses, valuables, or maybe even a concealed weapon; not a crying, squishy…thing.

"A baby?...God's blood! A monster!" Arthur holds the unsightly baby as far from his person as possible. Never before has he ever seen such a creature! A series of thoughts sail through his mind, faster than the biting wind whipping at his hair and clothes. He absent-mindedly mutters to himself things like, "Is this a nephilim reborn from Noah's day?" and, "Vile women! Fornicating with the devil…" Without commanding them to, his feet lead him to a well. Since the waters springing from it are on hallowed grounds, it is said that the water itself has a touch of holiness to it. Perhaps it is holy enough to send this demon back to hell where it belongs?

As Arthur holds the infant over the gaping mouth of the inky pit, another voice, one older and bolder than his own, breaks through to him.

"STOP!" cried the archdeacon.

Archdeacon Julius rushes onto the snowy scene. "What is going on out here?" He says as he kneels beside the woman still lying on the stairs, not caring that his pristine white robes would be forever stained with the her blood. He looks up; surprised to see Minister Kirkland holding a squirming, crying baby over the cathedral's well. With a voice quaking in anxious anticipation, again he asks, "What is going on?"

Arthur coldly disregards the concerned Archdeacon and continues to hold the wriggling baby over the dark and stone-lined muzzle of death. "It is only a woman trying to evade arrest. I will be taking her to the Palais de Justice as soon as I deal with this…thing."

Archdeacon Julius checks the woman's wrists and neck for a pulse. His usually cheerful face falls as he comes to a sad conclusion. "I do not think you will be taking her anywhere," he says before signing a cross over himself and kissing his gold and ruby rosary. "She is dead."

"Dead?!"

Archdeacon Julius is an old man, but he is still lively and strong for his age. And even though many of his associates would call him foolish or scatter-brained, all would admit that when it concerns serious matters, he is not a person to take lightly. Arthur remembers this as the Archdeacon gives him a stare stronger than reinforced iron. "You are responsible for the blood that has spilt on the steps of Notre Dame!"

"I was doing my job. Surely you cannot blame me for that?"

"Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt, on the steps of Notre Dame?"

Again, Arthur coldly disregards the Archdeacon and his accusations. After all, in his heart and mind he did the right thing. With his profession, situations often turn ugly. One must be prepared to fight or defend themselves. Though it is no secret that the judge does not like gypsies, he does not intend to kill them himself. No! Their addled lives are in the hands of God and the Law.

"You can lie to yourself and your infantry. You can claim to not have a qualm, but the blood spilled on these steps will call you every day in the sound of the Bells of Notre Dame."

With plaintive disposition, Judge Kirkland became docile
As the Archdeacon explained a way to reconcile

"Care for it?" Arthur grimaces as he looks over the baby (if one could call it that). He knows that over time he could learn to not be so repulsed by the little bastard's appearance. He might even be able to grow fond of it, but the visitants of the Palais de Justice, both welcomed and…requested, would not make things easy. Also, as a government official, he has a reputation to maintain. It simply would not do if all of Paris were to discover the Minister of Justice's compunction, and although it would be much more convenient to lock the little beast in a dungeon for the rest of its days, such treatment is not the way one usually "cares" for things.

Arthur looks at the limp body of the nameless woman; her blood being scrubbed away by a two italian clerics- two more witnesses of what has transpired this evening. He sighs, resigned to his fate. "Very well, but I cannot house him. Let him live with you in the church."

"Live here? Where?"

"Anywhere, as long as he is kept from the cruel eyes of people…The bell tower perhaps?"

Once again, a serious expression overtakes Archdeacon Julius' face. "Arthur…" he growls out.

Arthur flinches at the use of his given name. It has been a while since anyone has used it with such familiarity.

"You cannot shirk this responsibility." Archdeacon Julius stands up with the gypsy corpse in his arms. Such a shame; she was a beautiful woman, and probably seeking sanctuary. It is only fair to give her a proper burial. He looks to the baby; no longer dangling over the frigid waters of the well. "If he is to stay here-"

"I will take care of him!" Arthur says as he covers the baby. He brings the infant closer to his robes in an effort to keep it warm. "I shall even educate him and mold his thinking properly. He will prove to be a useful servant to myself and God."

Francois closes the curtain and directs the town children's attention to a small set. He holds up a hand puppet dressed in black with bushy brows and little green beads for eyes. "And so, Judge Kirkland adopted the little boy and cruelly gave him a fool's name: Ivan. Here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame. Who is the monster and who is the man? Sing the Bells of Notre Dame." His audience claps and cheers as a silhouetted puppet pulls on a string, ringing a little bell. Now that the story in over, the little ones skip off merrily or are collected by their generous parents.

Coins are handed to him and Francois counts them with glee. After all of the little metallic pieces are transferred into his change purse, he feels a little tug on his arm and hears an angelic voice call, "Monsieur Francois?" He looks down and there standing on her tip toes to reach into his caravan is a little girl of surprisingly short blonde hair and green eyes. To be honest, if it were not for the blue ribbon in her hair and the finely made dress, he would have mistaken her for a boy. "Is that really what happened?" she asks ever so sweetly.

Francois opens his mouth-

"Of course not!"

-but he is not given the chance to answer. Standing less than a stone's throw away is the très mignon albeit very temperamental Cdr. Basch Zwingli. "It is only a story Lili. You should not think so much about it." He gives the puppeteer a couple of sols along with a pointed, mostly neutral expression spiced with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "That was a very interesting story, monsieur," he says curtly. "But it is still just a story."

Francois smiles. "Yes, it was interesting n'est pas? Certainly more amusing than one of a babe abandoned only to be discovered and laughed at by a pair of gossiping nuns." Unable to help himself, Francois winks at the high ranking soldier, making sure to make a subtle yet seductive gesture. He laughs as the now red-faced guard storms off with little Lili in tow. Though he would not mind being in the company of Cdr. Basch (or any knight with a nice arse), it simply would not do for business; especially if he plans on getting away with his somewhat slanderous story.

Yes the origin and appearance of the mysterious bell ringer are subjects of both wonder and ridicule. There are many stories circulating about. Some even claim it is a demon seeking repentance from God! Francois knows that most of the rumors are bullshit, but he cannot say in good conscience that his version is the complete truth either.

The only person who could honestly say what happened on that night rests beneath the grounds of Notre Dame, and he will not be talking for a long time…

Neither will the unknown occupant of a nearby grave plot; where a beautiful, flaxen-haired woman is said to lie…

A/N: Technically the name Ivan means "glorious gift/God's gift" and "archer". I was making reference to the song, The Bells of Notre Dame and Ivan the Fool, a character in a series of Russian fairytales, chastised for being simple-minded or kind but in the end it's those qualities that cause him to gain riches and stuff.

If you couldn't tell, the gypsy women are Belarus (she was a little OOC) and Ukraine and the Archdeacon is Rome. I would have named him "Romulus" but I don't think it would have flowed right.

Medieval French Monetary System
(Or at least what I understand of it)

1 French franc = 1 livre

1 franc/livre = 20 sols (called sous after 1715)

1 sol = 12 deniers

If I'm wrong, feel free to tell me.

This fic is not originally mine. The Monster of Notre Dame is an unfinished fic written by Kats With Shamrocks. I read it, fell in love with it, and with her permission I have adopted it. It's not exactly like her fic. I am making it my own but I am also doing my best to stay true to her vision. If you want to read her version as well as this one, go to her profile page or search it (she's leaving it up).

Thank you for reading and please review. Seriously, I have been out of touch with my beta reader for some time so any reviews (especially helpful, critiquing ones) will be greatly appriciated.